April 19, 2010

No sooner do I mention my fondness for tripe, when my chef-type pal Stan admits that he has always wanted to tackle tripe in the kitchen, but never had a dinner guest who would oblige his fascination with bovine stomach line.

What can I say? I'm very obliging.

Good thing too, since his hearty Roman-style rendition served over Parmesan-scented polenta was utterly delicious. And, with my baking an Olive Oil-Lemon Cake to bring up the rear, a well-rounded meal was had.

Needless to say, we both felt very well-rounded at the evening's end. Well, more round anyway. In fact, rather roly-poly.

Next time, I have to get obsessed with rice cakes. Plain rice cakes. Dry rice cakes. Much better for the waste line.

But then I won't be able to use the phrase "roly-poly" in the resulting posting. Hmmm...Tough call.

April 16, 2010

I'd waited long enough. It was time to venture to Boerum Hill for a taste Canada. So, I headed to Mile End, an ode to the classic Jewish delis of Montreal -- the Quebecois ying to Katz's Lower East Side yang. Their speciality, pictured above between two slices of Orwasher's rye and a slathering of mustard, is Smoked Meat. And, fine meat it is, glistening slices of melt-in-your-mouth cured beef brisket bathed in coarse salt, black pepper, fresh garlic, and an assortment of different spices.

But something was missing. I was feeling the sandwich, but I wasn't feeling all sortsa Montreal.

Then I hit upon it. No French on the menu. No French spoken by the waitstaff. In other words, no Frenchified anything unless I wanted to order french fries (a.k.a. Frites).

Next time, I'll try to order my Smoked Meat Sandwich in French (with a Quebec accent, if possible) and see what happens.

April 15, 2010

So, my friend Kyle has gone to Paris. He went for business. Nonetheless, I thought it was well within my rights to send him on a mission - a mission to spend time in the City of Light's best patisseries and report back for me and my beloved blog readers tout de suite.

A step up from our taco tour in Sunset Park? I think not. Just different. And, I bet he'll be dying for a good Carnitas Taco when he returns to Nueva York.

Anyway, on to our intrepid guest blogger direct from Paris...

Note from Paris
By Kyle Matthew Mooney

When I told my friend VittlesVamp that I was going to be leaving New York for Paris for a little while, she responded with “I love you. I hate you. I love you. I hate you.”

Once she stopped playing Faye Dunaway’s character in Chinatown, she asked if I could write a piece or two for her blog about Paris. I replied that I would be happy to, and that I could send something in a week’s time.

This was four weeks ago. Better late than never, no?

Since I’ve had a month’s worth of food forays, I know Ms Vamp, and you, are expecting something good. Not to worry: I’ve got two great spots to recommend. The first is something that’s not a true find, really: a good macaron. I do love the macaron; it’s to Paris what the cupcake is to New York, except you don’t have to wait on line behind a gaggle of hooched-out tourists trying to live out Sex and the City fantasies at Magnolia Bakery.

But a macaron is not a macaron is not a macaron. Ladurée is a very popular macaron shop, with branches all over town. Their macarons are good, but to me, too heavy. (And rumor has it that they’re owned by Paul, a large bakery chain, and their macarons are rather mass-produced.) Aoki, a Japanese patisserie, does a good job, but their flavors are often a bit off-putting: wasabi does not translate well into a macaron. Jean-Paul Hévin is quite good, well-executed and with a fine selection of flavors. But to my taste, nothing can compare to Pierre Hermé...

Pierre Hermé’s macarons are just as they should be: two light, slightly crunchy meringue cookies encasing a center of flavorful cream. Hermé’s execution of the form is flawless, but what really sets him apart are the wonderful, unique flavors. The olive oil and vanilla macaron is a revelation, on par with Otto’s olive oil gelato. The jasmine variety is quite subtle: nigh tasteless at the outset, the perfume of the flower fills your mouth as you eat it; the rose flavor is similar in its palate trickery. But my favorite is the pistachio and grillotine, pistachio cream with a tiny candied cherry in the center. Divine.

If only Chirac had sent Pierre Hermé macarons to members of Congress and the Senate imploring them not to declare war on Iraq in 2003, he might have had better success than he did with de Villepin. These little cookies are pretty persuasive. France needs to learn to lead with its strengths.

But Pierre Hermé is a well-known spot. Legrand Filles et Fils is not, but should be.

Located in the lovely Gallerie Vivienne in the Second, Legrand is an institution. Housing a wine shop, chocolate and sweets shop and a wine bar that also serves lunch, Legrand is a real find. Their chocolates and confectionery are made in house; their pâte des fruits blows Hediard out of the water. Old fashioned pastilles and oddities like eucalyptus candy abound...

Their wine selection is hand-picked and well-priced. And the people who work there are not only helpful, but they love wine! It’s become my favorite wine shop and épicerie in Paris.

But the best thing about Legrand, in my opinion, is La Baronne. Served at lunchtime, it’s a smoked salmon steak served on a bed of diced Granny Smith apples and cucumbers, with a bit of olive oil and pink peppercorns. The salmon is of incredible quality; Barney Greengrass can’t touch it. In fact, no salmon I’ve ever had approaches this. The acidity of the apples, the coolness of the cucumbers and the smoky flavor of the salmon complement each other perfectly...

A little piece of heaven, and a helluva bargain at only 30€.

Even if you can’t make it for lunch, a glass of wine and a charcuterie plate at Legrand is an affordable luxury. It’s a Parisian must for any gourmet tourist.

April 07, 2010

There is nothing more primal and gratifying than a plate of aromatic beef marrow bones, ready to be attacked, its fatty richness waiting to be smeared on thick slices of toast and sprinkled with a bit of coarse salt.

In all its Flintstones splendor, I find this dish irresistible. Dining companions always ogle at my bizarre plate and once they hear me moaning with pleasure (as I did at Stone Park Cafe, while downing the mammoth marrow extravaganza pictured above), they suddenly become green with jealousy.

Luckily for them, I'm good at sharing. Figure if I do it enough, someday I'll get to marvel at an entire table tucking into a platter or two of roasted beef marrow bones.

A lovely, genteel sight to be sure. (And, that said, it'll also be the closest I ever want to get to the caveman diet.)